Glasshouse - Charles Stross [41]
“I’m sorry?” I ask, taken aback.
“She means, we need to keep up appearances,” Angel says, with another of those expressive looks that I can’t decode.
“I don’t understand.”
A faint frown wrinkles the skin between Jen’s eyebrows. “It’s not just about yesterday,” she emphasizes. “Everyone’s entitled to their little mistakes. But it turns out that in addition to our points being averaged within the cohort, each cohort in the parish gets to talk about what they’ve achieved in the preceding week, and the other cohorts rate them on their behavior before voting to add or subtract bonus points.”
“It’s an iterated prisoner’s dilemma scenario, with collective liability,” Angel cuts in, just as one of the operator zombies twiddles a knob on a polished metal tank behind the bar that makes a noise like a pressure leak. “Very elegant experimental design, if you ask me.”
“It’s an—” Oh shit. I nod, guardedly, unsure how much I can reveal: “I think I see.”
“Yes.” Angel nods. “We’re going to have to defend your behavior yesterday, and the other groups can add points or subtract them depending on whether they think we deserve it and on whether they think we’ll hold a grudge when it’s their turn in the ring.”
“That’s really devious!”
“Yes.” Angel again.
Jen smiles. “Which is why, darling, you’re not going to show up the side by violating the dress code, and you’ll be suitably remorseful about whatever the silly incident yesterday was about—no, I don’t want to know all the sordid details—and we’ll do our bit by backing you up and trying to bury the whole matter as deeply as we can under a pile of every other cohort’s sins. Won’t we?” She glances at Angel. “We’re the new group, we can expect to be picked on. It’s going to be bad enough with Cass, as it is.”
“What’s wrong with Cass?” I ask.
“She’s not settling in,” says Jen.
Angel looks as if she’s about to open her mouth, but Jen waves her hand dismissively. “If you’ve been getting any silly phone calls from her, just ignore them. She’s only doing it to get attention, and she’ll stop soon enough.”
I stare at Jen. “She told me Mick’s threatening to hurt her,” I say. The zombie delivers the first of our coffee cups.
“So?” Jen stares right back at me, and there’s a cold core of steel behind her expression: “What business of ours is it? What’s between a wife and her husband is private, as long as it doesn’t threaten to drag our points down or get our whole cohort in trouble. Apart from the other thing, of course.”
“What other—”
Angel cuts in. “You get social points for fucking,” she says, her voice self-consciously neutral. Again, she gives me that odd look. “I thought you’d have figured it out by now.”
“For sex?” I must sound faintly scandalized, or shocked or something, because Jen’s face relaxes into a mask of amusement.
“Only with your husband, darling.” She sips her coffee and looks at me calculatingly. “That’s something else we’ve noticed. I don’t want to hurry you or anything, but . . .”
“Who I fuck is none of your business,” I say flatly. My coffee arrives, but right now I’m not feeling thirsty. My mouth tastes as dry and acrid as if I’ve just chewed half a kilogram of raw caffeine. “I’ll dress up for the Church meeting and say I’ll be good and do whatever else you want me to do in public. And I’ll try not to cost you any points. But.” I tap the table in front of Jen’s coffee cup, insultingly close. “You will not, ever, tell me whom I may associate with or what I will do with my chosen associates. Or with whom I have sex.” The silence grows icicles. I take an unwisely large gulp of hot coffee and burn the roof of my mouth. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear, darling.” Jen’s eyes glitter like splinters of frozen malice.
I make myself smile. “Now, shall we find something civilized to talk about while we drink our coffee and eat our pastries?”
“I think that would be a good idea,” says Angel. She looks slightly shaken. “After lunch, how about we buy you something suitable to wear to Church?” She asks me. “Just in case. Meanwhile,